


Calibration

by prairiecrow



Series: Alignment (The Mob AU) [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Assassins & Hitmen, Confessions, First Time, Human Jarvis (Iron Man movies), Jarvis Will Do Anything for Tony, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Tony Had No Idea..., Unsuspected Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 02:32:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5357672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony has just been rescued from Afghanistan -- only to arrive back in North America and discover that Obadiah Stane, who should have been running his criminal operation in his absence, is nowhere to be found. And if there's one person on the planet who might know what's going on, it's his Academie-trained factotum-cum-personal hitman, Jarvis... but is Tony prepared for the answers he receives?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rupert Friend is Jarvis. That is all.
> 
> http://www.magweb.com/picts/nm1670029.jpg

Afghanistan had been seven different flavours of Hell, but Tony had no time to rest and recover — Rhodey might have refused to update him on the state of his Operation, but Pepper hadn't hesitated to let him know that things hadn't gone as planned during his unscheduled absence. So the second place Tony went after making it back to New York City — following a trip to his favourite burger joint, that is — was straight to his private office in Stark Tower. And there, exactly as expected, was Jarvis, just putting a cup of fresh black coffee on Tony's mahogany desk — how the hell Jarvis came by the spidey sense that let him accurately anticipate Tony's arrivals was a mystery for the ages, probably some weird Academie shit that he was far better off not knowing. But at this particular moment Tony had much bigger fish to fry — the Operation was running as smoothly as could be expected without an active head, no, _much more_ smoothly than could be expected with Tony's first lieutenant missing in action, and Tony had a pretty good idea who was capable of giving him the accurate 411.

"Welcome home, Sir," Jarvis greeted him, his attention focussed on placing the cup of coffee precisely four inches from the edge of the desk as Tony strode into the room with his right arm in a sling and blood in his eye.

Tony wasn't in the mood to trade pleasantries. "What the hell happened to Obie?"

Jarvis straightened and turned his unblinking gaze upon his employer. He was cool and unruffled in dove-grey casual business attire, as usual. Nor had he altered his habit of getting straight to the point. "Mr. Stane took advantage of your absence to consolidate his power within the Operation. In fact, I have gathered credible evidence that he, himself, was responsible for your abduction."

Which stopped Tony dead in his tracks. For a good two or three seconds he just stood there, gaping. "He — what?" Then the ridiculousness of the accusation caught up with him and he barked incredulous laughter. "No, no, no — you've got that ass-backwards! Obie was searching for me…" But the expression on Jarvis's face, calm yet implacable, smothered the words in his throat. "He _was_ searching, right?"

"Not half as intensively as he could have been," Jarvis replied, already turning on his heel to cross to the interface wall. A few deft taps and swipes of his fingertips on the transparent surface called up collections of data bordered with clean blue light. "And the operatives he did deploy were being sent to locations far afield of the place where you were ambushed."

"That's a damned good strategy," Tony countered, "considering that the Ten Rings is an international terror organization. Hell, they could have had me in Antarctica within two hours of picking me up!"

"Could they?" Jarvis turned to gaze at Tony with those damned grey eyes, predatory and unhurried. "Perhaps. However, Mr. Stane was acting counter to what little intelligence was available — and what is far more telling, he would not permit me to travel overseas to assess the situation on the ground personally."

Tony shrugged. "Well, yeah, but… no offence, J, but as far as everybody else is concerned you _are_ kind of my secretary."

"Mr. Stane was well aware of who — and what — I am," Jarvis replied evenly. "If he'd truly had your best interests at heart, he would have immediately —"

Tony had a sprained shoulder and (arguably) a bad case of PTSD in the making. Neither of which rendered his brain any less capable of appreciating the subtleties. "Wait, wait — you said he "was" aware."

"Yes. And given that knowledge, he ought to have —"

" _Was_ aware?" The puzzle pieces were coming together to form an appalling picture. "Jarvis, what the hell did you _do?"_

The factotum who was also an Academie assassin didn't miss a beat. "I eliminated the threat to your Operation and to you personally."

All the blood drained from Tony's face and brain, leaving him dizzy. _"You killed Obie?"_

"He was blocking me at every turn, and all the evidence indicated that he was the mastermind behind your abduction." Jarvis turned back to the interface wall and maximized one particular information block. "If you'll just —"

"You…" He staggered backward toward the leather armchair nearest the window and half-fell into it — not unassisted, because Jarvis crossed the twenty feet separating them with that nearly superhuman celerity of his and caught hold of Tony's left arm behind the elbow, solicitously lowering him into a seated position. Tony shook off the physical contact, nearly spitting in his fury: _"Don't touch me!"_

Ever obedient, Jarvis let go and took a step backward… but Tony, hunched in the chair with his eyes squeezed closed while he tried to breathe around the reactor in his chest and the anguished clenching in his throat, could still feel that grey gaze upon him, falling like dispassionate rain, soaking him to the skin.

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…_

"Why?" He tried to make it a demand, but it came out as a desperate gasp. Obie, his father's trusted right-hand man, his own oldest and most valued advisor… the man who was supposed to run the Operation if something like Afghanistan happened… Obie was gone, and Jarvis had killed him. "Are you fucking _crazy?_ "

"If I were crazy," Jarvis said softly, almost as if he were trying to be sympathetic, "I wouldn't have been capable of countering Mr. Stane's sophisticated attempts to conceal vital information from me. Nor would I have been able to unearth the necessary data, convey it to the military, and ensure your eventual rescue. I am only sorry that the process took so long."

"Obie…" No, that stinging in his eyes was _not_ tears, oh fuck… he screwed his eyes tighter shut, but still they threatened to spill free.

"Mr. Stark." He could sense Jarvis change position, from standing beside the armchair to kneeling directly in front of him. "Please…" Kneeling, yeah, okay, he could sort of understand that — Jarvis had a lot to apologize for, more than Tony could ever possibly forgive — but then Jarvis took hold of Tony's left hand in both his own, which was surprising, but not one quarter as shocking as the inexorable gentleness with which Jarvis drew that hand forward — or the pressure of his cool lips upon Tony's fevered fingers, kissing each one in turn —

Tony's mind, already reeling in one direction, was slammed sidelong toward a whole different track. His eyes flew open: Yes, it was Jarvis down on one knee before him, and it was Jarvis reverently kissing his hand as though each finger were worthy of its own devoted worship. Given that for the past seven months, all the time Tony had known him, Jarvis had never shown the slightest inclination to touch anybody beyond the barest contact necessary, and that Tony had in fact come to the conclusion that Jarvis abhorred the very idea, this impromptu demonstration of — affection, maybe? — naturally caught Tony off-guard.

Jarvis's eyes were closed, his normally impassive mask infused with reverence. When he had pressed a final kiss to the little finger of Tony's left hand he turned his head slightly to cradle Tony's fingers against his right cheek, and Tony was even more amazed to hear the faintest tremor in his perfectly modulated voice: "I calculated the probability of your return at less than 0.24 percent. And I thought that _he_ had ordered your murder." Those grey eyes flickered open to gaze up at Tony through dark lashes, and Tony was downright floored to see the fugitive gleam of unshed tears. "Given those circumstances, how could I possibly permit him to go on living?"

[TO BE CONTINUED]


	2. Chapter 2

Tony had no answer for that question. How the hell could he? It was a declaration that couldn't have caught him more flat-footed than if Jarvis had just announced that he was capable of flight — and he was even more appalled when Jarvis closed his eyes and stroked his cheek against his fingers, like a tall slender cat in an expensively tailored suit.

"J…" What was he supposed to say? _I forgive you, because you whacked him out of —_ No! That just wasn't possible… but the misery in the line of Jarvis's shoulders was unmistakeable, and Academie-trained attack dogs didn't cry at the mere prospect of being without a big boss. If Starks were men of iron, then Stewart Lucien Jarvis was forged of pure titanium…

… a superhuman alloy whose melting point was apparently the belief that Tony had died. It was a revelation that made Tony feel like he'd been caught in a magnitude 10 earthquake, and was currently sprawled amidst the debris of his life while aftershocks continued to wrack the ground beneath him.

He opened his mouth again — to say he knew not what — but Jarvis was already straightening up, letting go of Tony's hand and rising smoothly to his feet. His eyes were still damp, but the anguished fires behind them were shrouded once more with a mask of cool composure. "I apologize, Sir. You must be tired and thirsty — here, let me bring you your —"

He was already turning away. Tony grabbed his wrist to stop him, fingers closing tightly on pale skin through the smooth grey fabric. "No, Jarvis — no, no, _no_ , you do _not_ get to walk away from me after something like that!" He tugged, signalling that Jarvis needed to turn back and face him. Jarvis remained where he was, facing away toward the desk, every line of his body subtly infused with tension. "What the hell's going on here?" Another tug, harder this time — but Jarvis refused even to look at him. "C'mon —

"I won't ask you to forgive me for taking care of Mr. Stane — he was a threat to you and to your organization, and his destruction was necessary." His voice was measured, as melodic as ever, and no more inflected that if he'd been reporting the weather. "If you choose to banish me, then I will not attempt to persuade you otherwise. But for that — that puerile emotional display — I must beg your indulgence, and ask you never to speak of it again."

Tony stared up at him in even greater disbelief. "That's it? You kiss my fingers with tears in your eyes and expect me to just pretend it never happened?"

Jarvis took another step away, and Tony barely restrained the overwhelming urge to yank as hard as he could, to haul the infuriating asshole down into his lap and hold him there — kiss him, maybe, until some answers were forthcoming. But given Jarvis's combat capabilities, he deemed it wiser to let the assassin break free and cross to the desk, pick up the cup, and return on a butler's silent feet. "Your coffee, Mr. Stark."

"Fuck my coffee!" Locking gazes, he put his left hand on the arm of the chair and pushed himself back onto his feet, holding Jarvis's gaze the while. His angry pulse pounded under the line of his jaw, in his lips, in his fingertips — he was so close that he could see every striation in Jarvis's slate-grey irises, could feel the living heat of his breath ghosting against his own upturned face. "In fact, I'd much rather fuck _you_."

Oh, there it was — a flare of answering fire in Jarvis's eyes, and suddenly the narrow band of air between them seethed with incandescence, although Jarvis's erect and proper posture never wavered. "You have no idea what you're asking."

Tony grinned, sharp and feral. "So educate me."

Jarvis still hadn't blinked. "Are you forgetting that I murdered Obadiah Stane? Personally?"

"Not necessarily." And he hadn't — rage was a big part of this, and he'd be lying if he tried to claim that the thought of punishing Jarvis with his dick wasn't a potent motivation. "But I also know that you don't pull shit like this without a damned good reason."

Jarvis looked him up and down with unhurried thoroughness. "Or that I wrung the information concerning your location from him with my own hands?"

This time the chill creeping up Tony's spine was a shiver of horror: images of blood, of blades, of Obie screaming his life away flashed hard across his mind. But the probability remained: "If you hadn't, I'd be dead. You got that much right."

He met Tony's eyes again, and Tony must have been hallucinating, because he thought he saw fear in those icy depths. "Or that I enjoyed it?"

This time Tony's grin was morbid. "I thought you didn't enjoy anything much. Isn't that the point of being Academie?"

"You've taught me a great deal, Sir." He was still holding the coffee cup in both hands — left hand cradling the saucer, the forefinger of his right hand curled around the handle — as if he were frozen in the act of ceremonially presenting it. Tony could clearly feel the heat of him burning through all those carefully constructed layers of formality. "Including this — this… hideous, glorious weakness. This lust for revenge, and all that lies beneath."

Tony shook his head definitively. "Not true. You already had that coming into this — otherwise you would have killed me the very first time we met."

And wonder of wonders, it was Jarvis who dropped his gaze first, looking down into the black depths of the coffee as if his fortune were there to be scried. His voice was soft and aching beneath: "Perhaps I was never worthy of the Academie, after all."

"No." He didn't think, just acted: reaching out with his free hand to clasp Jarvis's upper right arm, gently squeezing the lean muscle beneath. "Listen to me — they're the ones who weren't worthy of _you_."

Jarvis didn't acknowledge the point — no nod, no shake of his head. His gaze, fixed on the coffee, remained clear and unwavering. "Will you send me away?"

[TO BE CONTINUED]


End file.
